Gosh

You know–just when I think I need to give this blogging thing up I come back to the site and have new folks that have posted.  I appreciate it so.  I’m working now so keeping my posts updated is at best difficult.  My editor friend, who is tremendous, continues to encourage me and give me ideas for new ways to expand.  She and you all are true peaches and I’m glad I’m on this journey with you. 

 

I’m going to give this upkeep another shot so thanks for not disappearing on me.  I so appreciate your words and support.  Motherhood may make the world go round, but mothers in the hood make the world come alive.

 

d

Psychotic

“Hey mom?” the seven year bellowed at me from the TV room,

“What does psychotic mean.” 

Hmm, I thought.  What is that kid watching?

“Well it means someone who’s kind of lost their mind and gone a little crazy.  Like they’re not grounded in reality anymore.”  I hollered back.

“HUH?  he replied quizzically.

“It means someone that maybe doesn’t think right anymore.  Someone who can’t control themselves or say things that make sense anymore.  Do you get it now?”  I said.

“No,” he said, about ready to give up.

“DANNY,” I tensed up, “you know how mommy gets once a month when I tell you I have PMS.”

“Yes” he said.

“THAT’S how someone is when they’re psychotic.”  I said.

“OHHHHHHHHHHH” he sang. 

“Thanks mom!”

“Not a problem,” I replied.

Yet another moment of complete understanding between a mother and son.

Parenting Tip of the Month:  I always tell the boys when I’m having a bad day and need to spend some time by myself.  I want them to know it’s okay to not want to be around people once in a while as long as you’re up front that you’re not going to be very good company.  Now, as they’re older, when they’re not having a good day, they are up front with me and go to their rooms or stay by themselves until they’re ready for company.  With so many people living in one house, knowing when someone isn’t able to be social is a must.

Missing in Action

So yes, I’ve been missing.   The reality is that I’ve started back to work on a part time basis.  I know for us stay at home moms that first step back into the work force can seem a bit intimidating.  Well as someone who’s going through the process let me put your mind to rest.  IT IS INTIMIDATING on so many levels and you should definitely fear it.

First off, everyone is so YOUNG.  When did we start letting grade school kids go to work?  Aren’t there still child labor laws still in effect?  They come in so perky and bouncy; men and women.  They eat yogurt with fresh fruit and drink green tea.  What the heck happened to greasy donuts, and coffee that’s so old it puts hair on your chest?

 
Then, there’s the issue of trying not to talk about your kids all the time.  THAT’S HARD.  Picture everyone standing around for a break, drinking the stupid tea and eating yogurt like it tastes good and they’re discussing the fascinating things they’ve been doing.   When they look to you and ask

“Where do you work?”

Images of your laundry room, kitchen sink and bathroom floor come to mind. You just don’t know what to say.  My stories of the past six years revolve mostly around some sort of bodily function that has ended up on my shirt, or my shoe, or in my hand.  

Then there’s the whole getting dressed thing. Probably not a big deal for some but for my entire professional life I wore exactly one thing; a uniform.  It was the same thing every day.  I didn’t have to match shoes, bags, pants and jackets.  Don’t even talk about different jewelry options.  Oh, and my hair?  I wore it up.  Every day I wore it up.  On the weekends I’d put it down just to see if I needed to go buy some extra bobby pins but I certainly  didn’t have to worry about the cut, the last time I’d washed it, or if the weather was going to turn it into porcupine hair.  It was so cold here one morning that the static electricity was horrible.  I remembered my mom used to take coat hanger from the closet and run it under her dress to get rid of the static build so Einstein that I am I was up in my bathroom at 6:30 in the morning rubbing an iron hanger over my head.  One of the boys came in and thought I’d been drinking.  The little smart aleck came down and Googled it and brought me a drier sheet.  As he took the hanger from my frantic hands he said quietly,

“Try this mom, it’ll be okay.”

I’ve also come to realize that high heels are about as much of a torture device as pantyhose.  Since I’m basically nobody where I’m working, I have to park and walk what seems like a mile in pointy little shoes that I’m sure some man with a mommy complex designed:

“Hey, what do you want to do today?” little Peter Prada asked little Davie Dolce as he’s pulling the legs off of a spider.

“Oh I know.” replies cute little Davie.

“Let’s design shoes for women that make their entire bodies rest on the balls of their feet.” 

“Great idea.” Says  Peter. 

“Oh, oh, and then we can put a four inch spike coming out of their heel.  It’ll be so fun.” 

Voila!  High fashion was born.  My crocs are a lot more comfortable and a lot more practical but my fashion savvy sister said it wouldn’t be right for me to wear them. Jerk.

The good news is, once everything got rolling I fell right back into things.  Seems your basic abilities don’t wilt and die on the vine like you are imagining when you’re home with the children.  I remember feeling some days like the clock was literally moving backwards as I spent yet another day doing finger paints, watching Barney and doing Everyday Math homework.    I would think of those Sponge Bob cartoons where the scene would come up that says,

“Six hours later” 

As I was folding yet another load of tiny little outfits.

So here’s the revelation.

I’m glad I stayed home with the boys.  I’m glad I’m only working part time and I’m glad I’m back to working.  I’m glad I wear crocs most days, and don’t have to worry about matching handbags, but I’m glad that I’ve got some new clothes hanging in my closet that make me feel good when I get dressed up for work.  I think my time with the boys has given them a great start in life, and in all honesty it hasn’t detracted from mine.  It’s given me a different perspective on the obligations we take on, a much greater appreciation for those moms that were working and had children when I was full throttle committed to my profession, and it has made me very, very thankful for the planning Steve and I put into having children so that we had the option of me staying home.

I know not everyone has that option, and I know that as moms it is our nature to feel guilty about EVERYTHING we cannot accomplish.  When I left work I felt guilty that I wasn’t working.  I felt I’d abandoned what I saw as an obligation to the organization that gave me so much.   But I knew in my heart that I could not answer two masters and I would always feel like I was shirking some responsibility somewhere.  I couldn’t do that to either my family, or the men and women I’d come to love professionally.

I guess as a grown up you’ve just got to make a decision and live with it.  My new lesson learned is that things will evolve.  It will change.  New doors will open just as familiar ones close.  Having choices is the legacy women who’ve come before us, have given to us.  I’m thankful for those options and supportive of whatever choices women make for themselves.  There is no one size fits all for motherhood and lord knows there’s no one size fits all definition of success.

So go out and define your success.  Embrace whatever is right for you right now and understand that it will change.  I’m not sure I believe everything happens for a reason, but I do think we can find the reason in just about everything. 

Have a brilliant day!

Parenting Tip of the Day:

If you are staying home with the thought of returning to a professional pursuit one day, don’t underestimate the value of volunteering in positions that will enhance your resume.  Four of the past six years I’ve spent as a board member of my school’s PTO.  That allowed me to put valuable experiences on my resume, such as “President of a federally recognized 501c (3) organization comprised of 150 volunteers with a budget that handled over 100,000 dollars in transactions each year.”  I left out the cookie and cakes sales part but really every bit of leadership and organizational experience you can show will help a period that you’ve gone without working and the PTO ladies helped me stay sane. 

For the Teachers

I wrote this for some boards I visit.  Thought I’d share at the holidays for you to share as you care too.  My work is copywrited but if you think this will make your teacher smile, please share and enjoy!

     

Removing Doubt 

The spirit was ready for the birthday ahead;
But something was nagging, “Someone’s working” he said.

But how could that be, it was late Christmas Eve;
was there someone below him who didn’t believe?

He looked to the snow, when the glow came to reach her;
it lit up the worry, an overworked teacher.

“Dear teacher”, he whispered, (she thought she was dreaming).
“It’s me” he said calmly, “Are you no longer believing?”

She smiled a bit, “I was thinking of you,”
“Got a moment to chat?” “For a teacher I do.”

“I worry” she said, “that as hard as I teach them”
“So many to help, are you sure that I reach them?”

“Dear teacher,” he smiled “If you only knew”
“Yes you reach them” he whispered, “I’ve made sure you do.”

“With your lessons of history, world wonders and joy”
“You open the minds of each girl and boy”.

“But how do I know…how can I be sure
Sometimes the doubt’s just too hard to endure.”

He continued and told her “ bear no doubt on your sleeve;
As you’ve already said-and I know-you believe.”

“Trust me “ said God; “long before you were here
my children were searching” then he wiped off a tear.

“They needed the selflesness, talent, the caring
They needed the heart you so freely are sharing”.

“The prayed every night for the lessons they missed
One Christmas I answered, a teacher, their gift.”

So go home to your family, your presents and mirth
Know teacher your work is the purest on earth.”

Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

 

Parenting Tip of the Day:

Establishing traditions is such a cool thing to do  this time of the year.  Think about wihch ones you have and let your children know what they are.  We always do a big countdown the first time we plug in the lights we’ve hung on the house.  It’s goofy but we’ve been doing it for years and so now it is a “Flett Family Tradition”.

 

 

 

 

Period.

It’s 10 o’clock in the morning.  I’m sitting here eating chocolate and pouring salt on my tongue.   I guess any woman reading this knows what that means.  I used to not be bothered at ALL by PMS but that is certainly not the case now.  My husband was the first to see it coming. 

“Honey” he called yesterday.

“WHAT” I hissed back.  I watched him start waving his arms.

“Danger Will Robinson, Danger Will Robinson” came the mechanical voice.

The boys know what’s happening.  Today they got up and packed their lunches.  There wasn’t the usual fussing about not having the right meat or the right chips.  Jake even used two heels of the bread to make his sandwich.  I apologized that the bread was all gone and he looked at me and said:

“Its okay mom…we know you’re busy”.

Ewww, that made me MAD.

I try to do everything the books say.  I haven’t had any alcohol (yet this morning), I’m drinking a lot of water and today I actually exercised. But I still can’t shake that feeling that I want to hurt someone; anyone.  I can visualize the bones of my fingers sticking out through the skin of my fingers and am actually excited about plucking my nose hairs later this afternoon.

The only thing worse than the wild fluctuations of anger I feel are my inexplicable crying jags. Like anyone I enjoy a good cry, but to have it in places like the toilet paper aisle at Shoppers Food Store is too much. 

“Ma’am, can I help you?” the stock boy asks.

“You don’t have 2 ply?” I sniffed.

“I can check in the back.” is the concerned reply.

“No, I’ll be fine.” I whispered hoarsely.

People, this is NOT ME.   I have four freaking boys.  I went from leading men to breeding men and I’m a pretty tough mom when I reflect on it.  I watched last night as a mom went rushing up to her son at a baseball game after he’d gotten hit in the leg.  It wasn’t a bad hit. There wasn’t any blood or anything and the boy was twelve years old.  I know that boy was MORTIFIED to have his mom come rushing up.*

 (*note to moms: after about the t-ball stage rushing to your child’s side is no longer cool.  Serial killers have evolved from lesser forms of humiliation.)  

Meanwhile, I glanced over at my boys. The little one was down on the ground playing dead while the others were circling and sniffing him to see if he was faking it.   I have learned not to intercede at such moments, less I disrupt the next stage of male evolution.

I didn’t cry the first time the boys told me they hated me; I didn’t cry when the guy with the epidural needle said,

“What is WRONG with your spine” as he jabbed me the eighth time. 

I didn’t even cry when I sold my BMW convertible to get the down payment for an SUV.  Now THAT was SAD.

Okay.  I get it.  In about a week everything will be back to normal.  I’ll be my cheerful self.  The boys won’t worry about stepping on my toes.  I can get back to baking cookies and cleaning dust bunnies.  But until then I have a much greater understanding of what puberty must be like.  Of course, that’s a WHOLE different blog.

Parenting Tip of the Day:  It took me a while to figure out when to back off from the boys and give them space when they were upset.   That doesn’t mean I didn’t talk to them, but I’ve learned to do it when the time is right.  It takes a lot of patience.  We’re moms and we want to know what’s wrong immediately so we can help fix it.  I read an article that said children feel safest sharing when they are doing hands on activities in a controlled space (like Lego’s at the table or throwing the ball in the yard).  Then you can gently lead them into a discussion on what’s wrong.  I’ve used that approach more times than I can remember with the boys and it always seems to work.

Halloween Treat

We went to a friend’s Halloween Party last Saturday night.  It’s a great time for the children and as the years have progressed, so have the games in the sense of “scary sophistication”.  This is the second year the event ended with a haunted walk.  I’d left about 30 minutes before the haunted walk for a “chick chat” event with some friends.  When I reunited with my husband at home, he relayed all the gory details as he was laying on the couch watching the Red Sox Game (please sing a little angel sound in your head after you say Red Sox  in order to appease the baseball gods).  The oldest son made it through the haunted walk fine, he said, but the ten year old, Sam, was just miserable.  Steve said he could hear Sammy screaming the minute Sam’s foot hit the trail.

ANYWAY, about an hour later I went to bed while my husband watched the game.  I woke up at 4:30 am and realized Steve wasn’t in the bed with me.  (I made that “patting the place next to you” motion we do when we realize it is way too flat.)  Now maybe for some folks having their husband sleep on the couch is the norm but my husband NEVER sleeps anywhere in the house but in our big ole, king sized, overstuffed bed.  I thought perhaps he’d fallen asleep downstairs (not really but had to check anyway).  As I walked downstairs I then reviewed a conversation we’d had with some friends at the Halloween party.

We were discussing a couple we knew having marital problems and I was flippant in how I prioritized my own 20+ year relationship.  It was nothing derogatory but WAY more nonchalant than I actually feel.  I thought how I hadn’t spent any time at the party really talking with my husband and instead chose to chat with friends.  That’s not us.  We like each other a lot, and spend a lot of time just with each other.  As I reached the couch to see if Steve had fallen asleep, I was now concerned that perhaps I’d angered him with my attitude and proceeded to have an “uh oh” moment.
 
Steve wasn’t on the couch.  I went to check the guest room, ensuring first that his car was in the driveway—okay I was overreacting a bit.  As I got to the guest room stairs I looked up and saw Sam’s bedroom door  open.  Upstairs I found my 6 foot 4 inch, 200+ pound husband asleep in Sam’s itty bitty bed.  His legs were hanging off the side of the bed and Sammy’s body was molded around his dad’s torso. 

“Steve, honey it’s 4:30 in the morning”, I said while gently rubbing his arm.

Steve’s eyes opened immediately and he said quietly “Shhhhh, Sammy’s scared.”

“Hon, your back is going to kill you tomorrow.” I said back.

“I’ll be fine” he answered.

I went back to our bed shaking from the rush of emotion and love I felt for that man.  Just so everyone reading this knows I wouldn’t trade my man for anyone else in the world.  Any woman that ever tried to take him from me would have the fight of her life on her hands.  I pray you feel the same about your man and when you have a chance you shout it from the rooftops.  There’s nothing wrong with telling the world how lucky you are!

Parenting Tip of the Day:  One of the greatest gifts you can give your children is an example of what a positive relationship should be by living that relationship with your significant other.  That doesn’t mean getting along all the time, but it does mean treating one another with respect and dignity.  If you make sure they see the standard for your relationship, it will become the standard for their relationships.

Mommy Guilt 101

 I’m not sure I trust folks with kids that don’t have photos or drawings on their refrigerator.  It’s kind of like watching a cooking show where the chef is skinny.  My brain can’t connect how those things go together.  I can’t open my fridge door without something falling off the front or sides and lord forbid I take something off that isn’t a “sanctioned removal”.  The kids will notice it’s gone in nanoseconds and we both RUN to the trash can.  Of course when they get there and open the lid they find the photo of SpongeBob they drew 6 months earlier lying pitifully in the bin.  I immediately know I’ve messed up when their little lip starts to quiver and they get that look in their eye that says “boy am I going to make her feel guilty today”.   

“Mom, you don’t LIKE the SpongeBob picture I drew for you?”  “Well of course I do honey but Mommy was hoping you’d draw me ANOTHER Sponge Bob picture, maybe one with eyes,”  I say trying to find some sort of exit strategy from this confrontation. 

“But Mom, this is the most special picture I ever drew” they say looking at the three yellow lines on the white paper that screams bad mommy.  “Remember we sat at the table watching SpongeBob and you got the crayons and made hot chocolate”.   Oh for Pete’s sake kid, you can’t remember to put the seat down but you remember six months ago when we drew this stupid picture. 

“OF COURSE Mommy remembers honey,”  “I was just, well; you know I think DADDY threw this away last night.”  Why don’t we just take it out and hang it up again”.   

Then I gently pull the browning paper from the trash can and start gingerly wiping off the eggshells and coffee grinds with a paper towel. 

“Oh honey” I say tears now welling up in my own eyes as I’m transfixed, bent over the counter, “It’s like brand new…honey, honey?”  Of course by now “honey” is down on the couch playing his DS and doesn’t even REMEMBER the paper while I’m there a trembling mass of guilt remembering the time my own mom took down the picture of the purple vase and flowers I drew for her in First Grade.

“Mommy”, I cried, “You don’t LIKE the picture I drew for you?”   Upon seeing my face my mom looked at me with the same guilty face I’d just used on my son.  “Oh honey, OF COURSE I like it.  You know I think DADDY took that picture down.”  “How about mommy makes you some hot chocolate and I’ll get it back up.” 

I love the parenting tips I never even knew I was getting.

d

Playing Possum

Just to keep your day in perspective, I want to share with you a morning I had about five years ago.  I originally wrote this immediately after the event so I wouldn’t forget the details, and so I could offer it to my sons as an example of a “typical day in the life” when they were young.  It is all written as if it happened today, and when I read it over, it seems like it did.  Enjoy!
    I got up this morning with my four little boys who were very grumpy but moving through their routine nicely. After their breakfast prep–I went upstairs to shower and change my clothes.  About two minutes after I undressed for the shower, I hear my oldest son going crazy on the deck, screaming “No, no, no!” I looked through my window to see him wildly waving his arms at our two boxers emerging out of the woods. Not knowing what was going on I ran downstairs half dressed to hear my son yelling “Mommy, the dogs;  they’re eating some sort of ANIMAL”.  “Oh great”, I thought.  This is my first experience as a real land owner with trees, woods and assorted wild things. I shooed the dogs away and sure enough lying on the deck were the freshly picked over tail and spinal column of some dead thing.
     The boxers, Lola and Phoebe were dancing and yipping; I’m sure singing the doggie rendition of “Don’t we smell pretty, look what we brought you”.  So face baths for the dogs in the kitchen sink and the somewhat disgusting task of carrying this, what I determined to be leftovers of a possum, tail and spine to the garbage. Okay, still time to stay on schedule. Dogs go outside, and Jacob’s ride to the chess club arrives. Dogs come running to the strange car that is in the driveway WITH MORE OF THE STUPID POSSUM IN THEIR MOUTHS.  I swear I could hear them singing again “Don’t we smell pretty, look what we brought you”.
     The round of EWWWWS from the boys and the stench of this eyeless possum carcass, which is now only inches away, almost puts me over the top. But I get it.  I must live by the laws of the land. With Jacob protesting he doesn’t want to leave the excitement; the car taking him to chess club pulls away. I now tell the six, the four and the three year old to get the shovel, the rake and the garbage can. I rake the poor possum leftovers onto the shovel, get the boys to open the lid of the garbage can (which already smells from the tail and spine of this little guy), dump the rest of the critter in and give the dogs their SECOND bath before 7:30 in the morning. 
     Hubby calls and I calmly tell him what’s happened. Ten minutes after we hang up, the phone rings again.  It seems hubby has talked to some of the more seasoned dead possum experts in the Pentagon, and by county code I can’t dispose of the remains of my dead possum friend in the garbage, I’m told I need to get the little guy out of the can and into a bag so we can bury it in the backyard. “OHHH NOOOO WAY”–I said, “You come home and bury the whole trash can if you want but I’m not touching that stuff again”.  In his “I wear a suit” sort of way…hubby explains that’s  not the best idea. Okay–It’s nine o’clock now and I’m down to the four and three year old for help. I say to the number three son –“Get the trash can and hold this plastic bag”.  When I open the can the stench is overwhelming. I immediately hear a gagging reflex behind me and the words “wait mom” followed by the sound of little feet scampering to the back of the garage. Well I can’t wait so I dump the can out and scoop up the pieces of dead animal stuff that litter the driveway. Just as I’m tying the plastic bag…I hear “Okay mom–I’m ready” and turn to see my four year old standing there in full scuba gear ready to take on the smelly leftovers of Mr. Possum.
     Now most folks would have called it a day–but noooo–I have a party for 15 at the house that evening. So, I drop the four year old at preschool and head to Food Lion to buy every tacky sort of food you can think of, including one of those big gallon jugs of red wine (it was a Tacky Bunco Party). We get home, open the garage and I swear the stench of the animal remains is so bad my eyes start to water.  My three year old and I let the dogs out of the house, and I start to unload the truck. 
      No sooner do I open the tail of the truck, than the wine jug rolls out and crashes to the floor.  I watch in disbelief as the red wine spreads out like blood from a gunshot wound and then turn to see the dogs taking back off to the woods.  I’m frantic now, yelling to the dogs to come back, trying to avoid broken glass, and telling my son to stay away.  Thankfully, the dogs listen and do come running and, of course, commence to lapping up the red wine. So now I have two drunk boxers, one dead possum, a three year old, broken glass all over the driveway, 15 people coming to the house for a party and I’m down to the three year old for help.  It is now 11:35 a.m.
      So that’s my story and I swear to you every bit of it is true.  Things do get easier as the children get older, but I laugh out loud when I remember that morning and offer it to you as perspective on yours.